


Imminent Disaster

by Moreena



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Abrupt Ending, Crying, Dark Character, Fights, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Old Writing, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 11:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7891087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moreena/pseuds/Moreena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attempted assassination at a high society event pushes lovers to places they haven't been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imminent Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Old work, circa 2010. Ends abruptly, I doubt it will be finished. Darker character, thoughts of rough sex/rape without previous consent. Tagged as such just to be safe. Characters acting differently due to high stress.

Quatre smiled at the giant room before him. Thousands of faces turned towards the table he was sitting at, each one a different level of brightness, each one awed by being in a room with so many powerfully important people. Quatre wanted to turn and look behind him, to give his lover and bodyguard an ‘I told you so’ smile in proof that nothing had gone wrong so far at this gala. The most prominent figures in the peace movement were assembled, giving speeches to rally and unify the people of Earth and the colonies. The end of the night would include an auction of some wonderful art and antiques, most of which were donated by Quatre and the Peacecraft name. Quatre stood and took another look at the room, delicately clearing his throat, about to tap the microphone when his eyes were drawn to a figure stalking through the crowd.

His words froze in his throat, and the figure stalked closer to the stage, practically shoving guests aside as he struggled to break through the crowd, pulling out a large gun. Quatre wasn’t interested in what size. He was more interested in the fact that the gun was pointed directly at him, and the head table. He struggled to say something, but suddenly people were screaming and fleeing, trying to avoid the man before them. There was the audible sound of other guns in the room cocking, and Quatre looked out at the room, shocked to find several more gunmen on the corners of the room, all the muzzles of their weapons trained at the upper table. 

Everything began to happen at once. The man directly in front of Quatre took sight and his finger twitched on the trigger, and then there was the almost explosion right in Quatre’s ear of another gun going off, right next to his face. His ears began to pound and he tried to duck, but glass began to explode and rain down on him. Several large chunks flew at him and he put his arms up to defend his face. 

Women were screaming around him, people were shoving and there were suddenly groups of Preventers swarming the room, trying to take control of the situation. It wasn’t working as well as they would have liked, and there were still gunshots flying at the table where Quatre was still standing, with Trowa on the side of him, trying to pick off some of them. The glass on the corner of the podium exploded, and Quatre didn’t pull his hand away fast enough. He felt more cuts springing up on his hand and arm, and felt glass sprinkling his hair. He looked up, ears still pounding from the earlier gunshot. Trowa was frowning, doing his best to shoot at too many targets. Another glass exploded, this time the giant window above the head table. Quatre let out a scream as he tossed his arms above his head and felt Trowa suddenly atop him, pressing him to the floor with his body weight. The glass rained down on them, cutting Trowa’s jacket, but never hitting the small blonde.

After the glass had stopped, Trowa sat up and kept a hand on Quatre’s back, pinning him down, making sure the coast was clear. He moved his hand and Quatre sat up, still trying to sort out what exactly had gone wrong with the evening. He turned to look at Trowa, and he frowned. Trowa was saying something, but the ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing anything, and his lover was speaking too fast for Quatre to even try reading his lips. Quatre stood and looked out at the room. Anarchy was the only thing that seemed to reign in the room. Preventer suits filled the room, milling with the more expensive outfits of guests. There were several people on the floor, some hurt, and others not moving. Most of those not moving were those who had opened fire on the head table. 

Trowa hoisted him into a more secure standing position, keeping him pressed close to his firm body. Trowa led him down the table and off the edge, down a short flight of stairs. People with microphones and cameras were suddenly in his face, jostling and yelling questions at him, none of which he could hear. Suddenly, he tripped over his own feet and swayed under Trowa’s tight grip on him. His head swam and he looked down at his hands, trying to piece together why they were coated in a crystalline ruby red. His mouth opened and closed and cameras flashed and whirred in his face. He reached a hand up to tug at Trowa’s jacket, trying to get his attention. Trowa was too busy pushing his way through the media, trying to get Quatre out of the room and into a more private area to recover. This wasn’t the war any more, and… Quatre hadn’t used his coping skills in a long time. Tugging wasn’t getting his attention, and Quatre was steadily growing more lightheaded by the second. He finally remembered that he had a voice and spoke up.

“Trowa, why am I covered in red..?” he asked in what he thought was a soft voice.

But his voice was a shrill yell, enhanced by the room, the situation, and his inability to hear made him think he was talking at a normal volume. Trowa stopped pushing through the paparazzi, and turned to look at his little lover, who held up both hands, trying to touch his lover’s face. Trowa’s face paled and he took hold of Quatre by the upper arm and began to push with more urgency.

“If you don’t get out of the way I’ll shove that camera down your throat! Mr. Winner is seriously injured and you are hindering me from aiding him. If he winds up in the hospital because I could not treat him, you all will be seeing him again from the other side of a courtroom!” Trowa barked out, glaring at anyone who tried to snap more pictures.

He yanked his jacket off and covered Quatre with it, tossing it over his head, hiding his wounds from the cameras and prying eyes. Quatre shuffled along behind him, still swaying from side to side as he walked. Trowa frowned, watching as more and more of the paparazzi continued to jostle and vie for position, falling into the blonde, struggling to get that crucial shot to make or break their career. Trowa swung around and scooped Quatre up by knocking his knees out, adjusting the jacket to cover the blonde’s hair and his arms. Quatre couldn’t hold back his whimper as his arms were roughly moved around. He wrapped his hands in Trowa’s shirt and squeezed, trying to nudge even closer as Trowa stalked out of the room and into the empty hallway, the press being held back by two Preventers. Trowa was on a single train of thought, and he rushed down the hall, cradling Quatre in his arms.

“Trowa, you’re jarring my arms,” Quatre whispered, tears filling his voice.

Each movement brought a jolt of pain down his arms, and after each jolt, a sense of burning fire seemed to follow right up, from his fingertips directly into his brain. Trowa was frowning and jabbed at the elevator button with his elbow, looking up at the little light as it slowly blinked down to their current floor. The doors opened and an elderly couple dressed in fairly fancy clothes slowly stepped off and looked at the bundle in Trowa’s arms.

“Kids these days,” the woman remarked, her voice full of reproach.

Quatre felt his anger spike and started to pull the jacket off his face but Trowa managed to maneuver just so that he was able to grab hold of it and keep it up. They didn’t need to cause another scene outside of the main hall. Anything else was asking for trouble, and the most important thing at this moment was getting Quatre upstairs and his top stripped off to check for damage.

“Bite your tongue little one. We need to care for you first,” Trowa said smoothly, smiling at them as they glided past, thinking they were years above the boy and the bundle in his arms, but if only they knew.

Quatre almost literally bit down on his tongue and kept his comeback to himself, adjusting the jacket over his head, doing his best to ignore the burning in his arms. Trowa slid into the elevator and jabbed the button for their floor, eyes narrowed, trying to glare the elevator into working faster. Of course, when it came down to it, considering that man made the machine, the machine won, and took its time reaching their floor. Trowa fought with his mind. The part of him that was Quatre’s love full-time wanted to just set the boy down, look at him, dress his wounds and tell him it would be alright. But the rational part, the Trowa that had survived the war won out, using logic and common sense to tell him that his first impulse was a very bad idea. So he waited and shifted Quatre in his arms, almost at the point of tapping his foot impatiently. He jabbed at the button again with his elbow and Quatre couldn’t suppress a small snicker.

“It’s not going to make it any faster love. I’ll be able to hold out for a little longer. Just don’t… Don’t jostle me around a lot and I’ll be alright.”

Trowa nodded and readjusted his hold on the blonde and watched the light click up onto their floor. The doors opened and Trowa walked out into the hallway, still cradling Quatre close to him. The hall was deserted, and the paint on the wall was rather calm looking, though it did not brighten Trowa’s mood. He stared at it, and tried to tell what color it was exactly. It was a hue of blue green, almost as if someone had taken a single drop of color from the iris of himself and Quatre and mixed them into a single color and made enough to cover the walls. He wanted to return downstairs and work with the other Preventers to interrogate the bastards that had crashed Quatre’s gala and ruined everything the blonde had been working towards, aside from running Winner Enterprises. He wanted them to hurt far more than what they had done to his lover. No one hurt his Quatre and lived to see another day. 

Of course, Quatre knew that. The blonde wasn’t oblivious to the facts, but if he fought it and tried to stop him, Trowa would never let him out of their small condo, and Quatre wouldn’t be able to get anything done at all. Trowa took care to make certain those guilty of physically harming his Quatre, who were miniscule in number, were dealt with very carefully and discreetly. If Trowa could not take care of the guilty one personally, he asked Heero to step in for him. Quatre may have detested the fact that his lover was murdering in almost cold blood, but he knew, deep down inside that it had to be done. Consequences be damned, as long as Trowa came home to him, alive and in one piece, he didn’t care what his lover did, as long as he didn’t try to share all the details.

They made their way past other plain white doors, all numbered with small gold plates at the top center. Across the hall from their room was a small painting of a sunny lake with a lone figure laying out on a dock, one foot dangling in the water. Quatre had something almost exactly like it hanging in their living room, and Trowa had to smile at the simple fact that there was another one so alike in existence. He turned to face the door, and was met with what he could only hope would be one of his final dilemmas for the night. How does one unlock a door with a plastic key card while holding someone who can barely stand?

“Set me down Trowa. Let me lean against the wall and you’ll have both hands free.”

“When I do that you’ll fall over and possibly injure yourself worse. Do you think I want that to happen, Quatre? I’m responsible for your safety and so far tonight I’ve done a rather poor job. If I was anyone else, you’d be dead, or if you survived, the person in this position would be fired and humiliated for the rest of their life.”

Quatre’s face hardened and he tossed the jacket off of his head, even though the movement pulled at his arms. His eyes took on a stone cold look and his lips set together in a thin line. He’d dropped into his business persona, and he wouldn’t revert into the loving and soft partner that Trowa knew best until he’d said what was on his mind and made sure whoever he was directing his words to knew it. Trowa gulped but stood his ground, letting his own face grow stern in attempt of hiding his own fear.

“Trowa Barton, you will set me down this instant and open the damn door to my room so that I can patch myself up. I am your employer and you will do as I say, even if it goes against your instincts!” Quatre said, voice rising with every few words he uttered.

To further his point, he began to struggle in Trowa’s arms, kicking his feet and trying to roll out of his grip. Trowa tried to keep his grip for a few more seconds, hoping Quatre would stop so he wouldn’t hurt himself any more, but it was a fruitless cause.

“Yes, Mr. Winner, right away,” Trowa responded as he knelt down and released Quatre carefully, propping him up right next to the door and fishing the keycard out of his suit pocket after he picked it up off of the floor.

He placed it back on top of Quatre’s head and turned to the door, dropping the key in and waiting for the light to flash so he could turn the handle. Nothing happened the first time, so he pulled it out and did it again, letting out a relieved breath when he was able to turn the handle and push the door open. As he pushed, he turned back just in time to see Quatre take a teetering step forward, almost losing his balance. By sheer force of will on the blonde’s part, he managed to stay upright against the wall. Trowa tried to grab him back up, but Quatre waved his hands away.

“Help me walk. I don’t need you to carry me,” he snapped, looking up at him, face still rather cold, livid after having to pull rank on his lover.

Trowa nodded and came up on one side of him and gently lifted an arm over his shoulders, wrapping an arm around the blonde’s waist and together they slowly walked through the doorway. Trowa kicked the door shut and helped Quatre to the bed, helping him sit on it. Quatre took deep breaths and closed his eyes, face very pale even in the darkness of the room. Trowa flicked the lock on the door and hit the light switch, bathing the room in a soft yellowed glow. Quatre dropped the jacket from his head onto the floor and rolled himself onto the plain white comforter. He didn’t care if he ruined the bedding. He could afford to replace it. After tonight, stained bedclothes would be the least of the hotel’s worries. He placed his head on the pillows and set himself to watch Trowa as his lover moved over to their bags. He watched as Trowa grabbed a medium sized duffle and brought it over towards the bed. He unzipped it and pulled out a huge medical kit like the kind they’d all traveled with during the war.

“Is any of that stuff even any good any more?” Quatre asked, rather skeptical of the idea, though he knew his lover better than that.

“Of course it is. I take it with us every time we go somewhere and I refresh everything in it accordingly,” Trowa stated as he snapped open the top and flipped the lid back to reveal almost everything needed to patch up a person, short of intensive surgery.

Quatre gave him a small smile, slowly easing himself back into his more natural personality. His voice lost the hard edge though his eyes remained dark and slightly cold. Trowa brought the kit to the bed and slid an arm under Quatre’s legs and one behind his back, propping him up just a bit more on the bed so he could work. Fingers born with years of practice, undoing buttons in rushed moments of passion had Quatre’s white dress shirt hanging off his upper arms in a matter of moments. Quatre pushed himself up and Trowa pulled it off his arms and dropped it to the floor.

“This is going to hurt a lot Quatre…” Trowa said with a frown as he brought both of the blonde’s wrists up into the light to examine them.

Quatre nodded and took a deep breath, gritting his teeth. Trowa ducked into the bathroom and came out with a small basin that had been set between the two sinks as a more decorative piece, leaving the pitcher that sat inside it on the black marble counter and set it in Quatre’s lap. He maneuvered both wrists over it and opened a bottle of antiseptic. Quatre hissed and closed his eyes, turning his face into his shoulder, biting at his flesh to muffle his soon to erupt screams. Trowa gave him a soft apologetic look as he tilted the bottle and began to rinse his wrists with the liquid. Quatre let out a scream and fought against Trowa’s grip on him, trying to pull his arms back. It seemed to take too long before Trowa stopped the attack.

“I’m sorry Quatre. I don’t want to do this by choice,” Trowa whispered softly, patting the top of his hand.

Quatre nodded and let his upper body sink back into the pillows, giving his arms up to Trowa. Trowa grabbed a pair of surgical tweezers, and turned Quatre’s wrists up the other way. With methodical movements he began to carefully extract the glass shards, dropping them into the pinkish liquid in the bowl. He pulled out what he thought was the last piece from the left wrist. He grabbed the antiseptic again and began to pour it over, watching as it fizzed and bubbled and ran down Quatre’s small hand into the bowl. He set the bottle down and grabbed one of the white towels and was about to wrap it up when he found another tiny sliver. He pulled it out and took the towel in his hands again, wrapping it tightly like a tourniquet. He turned to look at Quatre and felt part of his heart break. The blonde had his head tossed back on the pillows and tears were streaming down the sides of his face like small rivers.

“Quatre…”

Quatre turned at the sound of his name from Trowa’s lips and tried to speak, but his throat was too dry to talk. A glass of water was pressed to his lips and he took small sips, swallowing repeatedly until he shook his head and Trowa took the glass away.

“Just finish love… I don’t know how much longer I can stay quiet through this,” Quatre whispered, closing his eyes again, blinking away more tears.

“I might not be able to get them all out Quatre; we’re going to have to get someone more experienced up here to check you out.”

“Just fucking do it!” Quatre practically snarled out, opening his eyes to give Trowa a cold glare.

Trowa nodded and bit his lip and took up a roll of gauze, dropping the towel to the floor and applying a topical ointment to all the cuts before he began to wrap the gauze securely around it, layering it before he tied it off. Then he gently grasped Quatre’s other wrist and repeated the entire process. He’d just finished tying off the second bandage when there was a sharp knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Trowa called out, setting the things from his lap onto the dresser, reaching a hand around to the small of his back, going for his gun while Quatre watched the entire thing, still sore and face streaked with tears.

He made his way over to the door and looked out the peephole. His face darkened with a frown at the man with a camera outside. He moved his hand away from the gun and folded his arms over his chest.

“Who is it?” he asked again, patience wearing thin.

“Room service,” the man called back.

If Trowa had been anyone else he would have snickered. They had not called room service, and unless things had changed… He shook his head and turned as he heard the bed shift. Quatre was sitting up, cradling his arms to his chest briefly before he dropped his feet to the floor and staggered into a standing position. Trowa grabbed the bowl of bloody liquid and reached into his pants for his cell phone.

“Stay in bed Quatre. The reporters have managed to get upstairs,” Trowa said to him, snapping open the phone and pushing a few buttons before he took the bowl into the bathroom, to let Quatre rest.

Quatre watched as he left and slowly stood on his feet, gripping the bed for balance. He made sure his feet were under him and keeping him upright before he took a slow step away from the bed. His legs held and he let out a grateful sigh. With slow steps, he made his way across the room to the closet and pulled out a plain white dress shirt and managed to slip it on without releasing too many cries when he tugged at his bandages. He turned to look at the bathroom, trying to figure out where Trowa was based on his shadow.

“I know you’ve got a fucking riot down there! I don’t care. I want at least one man up here to keep the damn reporters away from Quatre. He’s got enough to worry about as it is. I don’t even want to know what kind of mess we’ll all be waking up to in the morning. I want this contained!” Trowa was practically shouting.

Quatre gave a small tremble for whoever was on the other end of the line and reached up for one of his suit jackets. He had struggled into one arm and was trying to bring the other side into a better angle so he wouldn’t pull at his wounds, but it wasn’t working as well as it had with the shirt. He let out a soft whimper, and tried to tug at it again, when Trowa appeared in the doorway, ear still to his phone. He barked something that Quatre didn’t understand and froze at the look his lover gave him. Trowa quickly snapped his phone shut and dropped it atop their suitcases.

“Quatre Winner, what did I tell you?”

“I know Trowa, but I wanted to do some damage control.”

“You’re injured, you’ve lost blood, and you can barely put a shirt on. Clearly I’m just going to have to incapacitate you further,” Trowa growled, loosening his tie as he spoke, advancing on his lover with firm steps.

Quatre took a shaky step backwards and bumped into the closet door. He was backed into a corner, and he couldn’t use either of his arms since he was still trying to work one into the sleeve of his jacket. Trowa’s tie didn’t slither to the floor, but wound up taught between his hands. Quatre swallowed and Trowa attacked. He grabbed the jacket by the side that wasn’t fully in and yanked, pulling it down and away, knocking Quatre slightly off balance. But Trowa wasn’t done. He used the brief moment to strip the jacket off his lover and managed to snag both of his wrists in a single hand. He had to do some adjusting and maneuvering, using both of his hands to change the angle of Quatre’s arms, but he managed to get it and soon had both of the blonde’s arms above his head. He dragged the blonde over to the bed and shoved him onto it, straddling him, riding him hard into the bed. Quatre let out a cry, but Trowa had let himself be overwhelmed by his more animal instincts, and there was nothing that was going to help the blonde.

“Trowa, stop it! You’re hurting me,” Quatre said calmly, trying to keep himself out of panic, not sure how good of a job he was doing.

“You’ve brought this upon yourself Quatre. Begging isn’t going to help you,” he said as he wrapped the tie around both of Quatre’s wrists as he continued. “But it will make my cock all the harder to fuck you with.”

Quatre swallowed as he took in the full situation. Injured or not, he was out classed and out maneuvered by his lover. This however, was not something he wanted the press just outside the door to hear. That would cause an entirely other type of scandal, that he just wasn’t ready to face at the present moment. It was better to give in now and accept defeat earlier on in the game.

“Fine Trowa! You win, I won’t leave the room. I’ll stay in bed like a good little injured millionaire and play the media. That’s what you want to hear right? I’ll give in to you and just do what you want. You can stop right now.”

“You’re just saying that to appease me, and normally love, that would be just fine, I’d guard the door and let you rest. But you’ve displayed such tenacity and pure unwillingness to listen that I can’t take your word like I normally would Quatre.”

Quatre froze for a moment, not sure if he’d heard that right. Trowa wasn’t going to just roll off of him and leave things alone. He was going to beat the proverbial horse until it was almost dead, until it had learned its lesson. He swallowed past the growing lump in his throat and looked up into the darkened, slightly cold eyes of his lover.

“You’ll thank me for this later Quatre,” Trowa whispered, securing his tie around both of the blonde’s wrists, using one hand to simply pin them above his head before he continued. “And you can call it rape right now, if it will make you feel better, but in the long run, you want this… You crave it way down in that dark place inside your body that always wants a thrill, to push the envelope. The Quatre that no one but the Gundam pilots and myself as your lover have seen. So it can be rape now, if you feel that makes things… Easier to swallow. But later, when you’re lying there, perfectly sated, without a care in the world, you’ll thank me.”

Quatre swallowed around the growing lump in his throat and tried to think of a way out of his current predicament. Trowa sat on his knees above the blonde, carefully planning out his next move. It wouldn’t do to rush things and end them quickly. He had to make sure Quatre knew that he was right. But seeing his lover spread like that, ripe for the taking and helpless, it flicked a switch deep down inside of his being that he never knew existed. He wanted Quatre helpless like this, wanted to degrade him in such a way… With a shake of his head, he shoved and stomped on those darker thoughts… Quatre must never know that they existed.


End file.
